


See No Evil

by Zodiac



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Violence, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch needs Therapy, The rift is a scary place who could have guessed, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zodiac/pseuds/Zodiac
Summary: After so many, many trips through the rift between the shards, Emet-Selch had learned not to look.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	See No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> A server I'm in was wondering how the Ascian portal things work and then my hell brain was like, 'Hey, what if they go through something similar to the intro Shadowbringers cutscene when they travel through the rift?' and that's probably not at all what actually happens, but I wanted to write it anyway.

After so many, many trips, Emet-Selch had learned not to look.

The rift between the shards was an inhospitable place. With no landmarks of any sort, it was disorienting even to those skilled in traversing it and, to a beginner, it was all-too easy to step off one's chosen path, a mistake that may very well set them wandering aimlessly for days or months or years until they find their way out to some unknown destination, if they even manage that. The complete lack of any light sources certainly didn't help; while the darkness of the rift may be comparable to the night sky outside it, the firmament at least had the decency to be speckled with stars, bright little pinpricks that, for the most part, had remained a familiar constant over the millennia. Finally, it was absolutely  _ frigid, _ the still air—or lack thereof—cutting right down to bone as surely as the biting winds of Ishgard or Garlemald or the myriad other cold locales he had visited throughout the shards… not that it bothered him as he was passing through the rift. The lack of a tangible body of his own proved to be an unexpected boon in that regard.

But the rift contained hazards for the mind as well as the body.

His first trip, before he truly understood just how extensive the damage of the Sundering was on his former home, began with the rift looking as expected of the nothing between something, bleak, black, and barren. But then, as he journeyed onwards, the outlines of jagged shapes made themselves clearer and clearer over time, uneven, irregular things that could barely be seen due to their deep purple coloration. But then, one step too far, and they were suddenly ablaze, what he realized to be shattered crystal shards reflecting phantasmal flames through black, choking smoke as his city, his  _ people _ burned all over again before his eyes and he could practically hear that  _ sound  _ and the  _ screams _ , the gonging, pervasive death knell of creation itself as it warped everything and quickened fear in his very being and then he was running, running,  _ running,  _ to where, to what, he hadn't the faintest idea, but he had to run, to flee, to save them, to save  _ himself _ .

And then, mercifully, he slipped back through the cracks of reality and was ejected from the rift face-first, landing harshly on the ground of one of the shards. Though his face and front were now smeared with dirt and he had no idea where he was, he openly wept into the ground, trembling and shivering and thanking his defeated, trapped god that he hadn't been forced to remain in that horrid place, reliving his worst memories.

While the horror of the fall of Amaurot never faded in his mind, new, fresh atrocities cropped up through the centuries, adding fuel to the already copious stockpile of nightmares the rift could hurl at him—and hurl it did, for trips through it became commonplace once Emet-Selch and the remainder of the Convocation realized it would be required to rejoin the shards. The Thirteenth being consumed in their efforts to rejoin it with the Source and carrying the knowledge that all of its now twisted and warped inhabitants were just like the myriad creatures that populated the other shards… All the Calamities they had wrought, all the lives they had ended…

Certainly, the beings that inhabited the shards nowadays were mere fragments of the civilization that once was and the Convocation had collectively decided it would be for the best to do whatever was necessary to bring their god back, but… Even as the former leader of the Bureau of the Architect, in charge of decreeing which creations were gifted existence and which required more thought or work before being willed into being, it was… a  _ difficult _ task for him to do what needed to be done, at first.

Amaurot was a peaceful civilization and, while he was accustomed and attuned to death itself, carrying out the act was always done with the most solemn respect, when he truly had to do so. That phoenix that Hythlodaeus had brought to his attention eons and eons ago had been returned to the Lifestream as swiftly and painlessly as he could manage it, just as he had any other being that needed to be sent on their way, but those were creatures for the most part, animals and beasts that bore little resemblance to the people that gave them life.

These fragmented creatures, on the other hand… though much smaller and weaker than his kin, they bled the same, they screamed the same, they  _ died  _ the same. The first time he had to personally extinguish one of their lives, he was taken aback as soon as the being spoke, screams and cries and pleas for mercy spilling from their throat before his hands could fully cut off the stream of them. At first, he faltered, mind instantly flickering back to those burning flames once more, to the begging and cries that were so uncannily similar to the ones he was hearing now. There was a pause then, hands ringing their throat like teeth of a predator tasting its prey, squeezing firmly, but not enough to cut off air.

Through the haze of panic and painful, poisoned nostalgia, he briefly wondered at the possibility of cohabitation, of living amongst these beings so similar, yet so detached from his own people.

But no, he had already attempted such a thing before and, when they inevitably discovered the extent of his powers, they saw him as a god of sorts, fearing or worshiping or  _ hating _ him depending on the exact community; in any case, it was not something he wished. Besides, murmured the grim determination welling in the back of his head, to perform such a thing as cohabitation would be to throw away the sacrifices all his brethren made to keep their star shining bright, to throw away how his god had been Sundered so violently by that heathen primal.

And so, with those thoughts shouting over the ones of Amaurot burning, the jaws clamped shut, cutting off this poor, ignorant soul’s air until their struggling ceased.

And, the next time he traveled the rift, that same soul’s gasping, desperate face was reflected in those shattered crystal shards before he willed himself to close his eyes, those same choking inhales and half-formed words haunting his mind.

Soon enough, they were joined by more phantasms that he only caught the briefest of glimpses of: blood oozing from one’s chest due to a freshly-inflicted knife wound, another clutching their stomach where a bullet had entered, one particularly unfortunate being who was pierced by countless dark, magical arrows… The rift kept track of it all, even as the amount of deaths and the actions that brought them about grew so numerous that they began to blur in his mind, horror and shock dulling to nothing as the act of killing became little more than a tally, digits that he couldn’t bring himself to care about.

However, even though he had grown numb to the atrocities he had committed over the years, he still shut his eyes against whatever memories the rift threw at him, still susceptible to unexpectedly seeing his city ablaze, even after millennia. It was likely only due to that blessing, if one could refer to it as such, that he missed the rift’s newest addition, acquired sometime after his farce as Emperor of Garlemald ended and the Warrior of Light was proving to be more and more of a nuisance by the day. The unmistakable masks of Nabriales, Igeyorhm, and Lahabrea, all drifting in nothingness, decidedly without their respective owners.

All watching.

All waiting for him to join their ranks so that they may torment the final remaining Ascian together, as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and wanted to screech at me in a manner similar to socializing, then you can find my Twitter right [here](https://twitter.com/HippestGlitch).


End file.
